


A Night Like This

by Shakespeares_Girl



Category: Glam Rock RPF
Genre: Cutting, M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-25
Updated: 2011-02-25
Packaged: 2017-10-15 22:54:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,605
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/165690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shakespeares_Girl/pseuds/Shakespeares_Girl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What do you do when you walk in to see something you never wanted to even think about, ever again?</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Night Like This

**Author's Note:**

> This seems to be a thing for me. I enter a fandom and must write cutter!fic. So far, this one's probably my favorite, but I am beginning to wonder about my fandoms. So yeah.
> 
> As always, I would like to state that this fic in no way condones the behaviors discussed, nor do I mean to imply that the character's real life counterparts partake in these activities. This is fiction, and I'm using it as a tool to discuss social issues, not as a way to incite or encourage destructive behaviors.
> 
> Thank you.

Adam cracked the dividing door open a little, not wanting to disturb Tommy if he was asleep by knocking or calling his name. He peered inside carefully, and froze.

Tommy was sitting with his back against the bed, an array of supplies laid out around him in a semi-circle. There were bandages and cotton balls and a bottle of isopropyl alcohol. There was a pair of sewing scissors--possibly the ones Sasha had been complaining about missing from her kit. There was a pocket knife, and a piece of broken glass, and a heap of alcohol and disinfectant wipes, stolen from different first-aid kits. A white towel, probably from the hotel bathroom was folded neatly by Tommy’s thigh.

Adam clenched his teeth and didn’t say anything, waiting carefully as he reined himself in and got back control. This . . . this wasn’t anything he’d ever wanted to see. Not again, he thought angrily. Then he shook himself and stepped a little farther into the room. Tommy didn’t notice.

He was inspecting his left arm carefully, frowning down at the pale underside, and Adam caught sight of criss-crossing scars and scabs. It made him a little sick to watch, but he knew better than to startle Tommy out of his ritual by speaking. So he watched, and Tommy picked up the pocket knife, opened it, tested the blade. Satisfied, he laid it down and ripped open a disinfectant wipe. Adam could smell the sharp, too-clean smell from where he stood. Tommy wiped down the knife and set the wipe aside. He held the knife carefully, then pressed it to his arm and slid, carefully keeping the pressure solid and even.

He picked up the blade from his skin, took a deep breath, moved a few inches up his arm and pressed in again. Adam saw the exact moment the pressure changed from safe to wrong. The knife slipped and Tommy gasped, and Adam was across the room before he could think, taking the knife and wrapping the towel around Tommy’s arm.

“Keep applying pressure until I get this cleaned up,” he said shortly. He takes the knife in one hand, then opens another disinfectant wipe with the other, spitting the torn wrapper from between his teeth and wiping the blood off the knife. He closes the blade and sticks it and the scissors and the glass into the nightstand drawer, next to the Gideon Bible and the phone book. When they were safely shut away, Adam sat down across from Tommy and grabbed up the alcohol and the cotton balls. “Let me see,” he ordered.

There was a moment of hesitation, during which Adam was sure Tommy was going to kick him out, but instead the smaller man shrank into himself helplessly and pulled the towel away. Adam ignored Tommy’s body language for a moment and inspected the wounds. The shallower of the two cuts was mostly done bleeding and could be bandaged in another moment. The other cut, the one where Tommy’s hand had slipped, was still oozing blood enough that Adam had Tommy wrap the towel back around it. “Leave it until I’ve taken care of the first one,” he instructed.

“Adam,” Tommy said, voice quiet and a little hopeless.

“Not now,” Adam shook his head. “When I’ve got you patched up.” He took a moment to gauge the necessary bandage size before shaking alcohol onto a cotton ball and harshly wiping the cut clean. He held Tommy by the wrist with one hand, and he felt the tremors as he tried to keep still and escape all at once. Adam let the skin air dry, then slapped the bandage over the cut. “Now the other.”

With a sigh, Tommy released his hold on the towel and let Adam look at it again. Adam could feel Tommy’s eyes on him as he poked and prodded, but he didn’t look up or acknowledge Tommy in any way. Finally he let go of Tommy’s arm and stood. “Where do you keep your sutures?”

“Wha--” Tommy blinked up at him for a moment, ready to deny, then pointed carefully toward his duffel bag. “There.”

Without acknowledging Tommy’s answer, Adam strode over and opened the bag, rifling through Tommy’s clothes until he got to the bottom and found a plastic bag that was identical to the ones he and the girls used for their make-up. He unzipped it and found a suture kit. He tossed it over to Tommy and shoved the case into his back pocket. He sat down again and used another wipe to disinfect his hands, then took the suture kit and ripped it open. Breathing through his nose in an attempt to keep from shouting at Tommy, Adam carefully sewed the deeper cut closed. Then he slapped a bandage over it and squeezed. Tommy hissed, his eyes glazing and his head lolling back before Adam let go.

“Okay,” Adam finally said. “Why?”

Tommy just shrugged.

Adam sized him up, then asked again, “Why?”

“Because--at least I can feel something.” He shrugged again. “At least I can control this.”

“Can you really?” Adam asked. “You just cut too deep. What would you have done if I hadn’t walked in? Sutured yourself, obviously, tried to hide the blood and the bad patch job. Maybe gotten infected and sick. Given yourself a nasty scar for sure . . . not that you don’t already have plenty of those.”

He waited, but there was no answer from Tommy.

“Is there any other time, any time at all when you can feel, when you can be in control?” Adam finally sighed.

Brown eyes snap up to Adam’s, and even if the movement hadn’t been immediately followed by a whispered, “When you--on stage--” Adam would have known from the movement alone.

“Have you showered yet?” he asked, and when Tommy shook his head, he pointed toward the bathroom. “Shower. When you’re clean, get back out here.” The way Tommy obeyed immediately was telling. The worst part was, Adam got it. He really did. He got not being able to feel, he got not being able to control. He understands the underlying feeling of being worthless and useless. Most of the time the feelings and the insecurities are relegated to “Back In High School When . . .” but if he’s completely honest, they never really go away. You either learn how to deal with it a different way or you die from it. Adam knew he was one of the lucky ones. His scars had faded to faint white lines and for nearly a decade now, he’d been able to stop.

While Tommy showered, Adam took the cutting tools and the rest of Tommy’s kit and hid it in his own room. Then he methodically searched Tommy’s bags for any signs of a secret stash. When he found the second make-up bag filled with a smaller version of the kit, he took that too. Then he sat down to wait.

Tommy walked out of the bathroom a few minutes later, arms wrapped around himself, small and vulnerable in just a towel. Adam got off the bed and went to Tommy’s bags to get sweats and a t-shirt. He handed them over without a word, then sat back down while Tommy dressed himself. Finally Adam spoke.

“I’m not going to ask why again,” he said, sighing quietly when he noticed Tommy was shaking, whether from cold or from emotion Adam wasn’t sure. “Come here. Sit.” It didn’t escape either of them how Tommy did what he was told without question. Adam waited until Tommy sat, then wrapped his arms around him and hummed, deep in his chest. “You won’t do that again,” Adam said factually.

“I will--”

“You won’t,” Adam interrupted. “And not just because I took away your kit. You won’t do that again because I cannot lose you to . . . that.”

“I don’t--” Tommy sucked in a breath. “I don’t know how to . . . I’ve almost always . . . I don’t know how to stop.” The admission obviously hurt, and Adam tightened his arms around the smaller body.

“I will help you.” He doesn’t bother making it a suggestion.

They remained silent for a while, both lost in thought and in the oddly comforting sensation of the other one so near. Finally Tommy asked, “Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why are you doing this? Why are you helping me? Why aren’t you . . .” he waved a hand vaguely. “Madder?”

The silence is longer the second time, not because Adam doesn’t want to answer, but because the answer is hard to admit. “I did this.” Before Tommy could do more than frown, Adam hurried to explain, “Not this, not in this room. But I’ve done it. I’ve been where you are. I didn’t know how to stop.” The words settle over them and Tommy fights the overwhelming urge to hide his face in Adam’s neck. If Adam can face him down while he talks about this, the least Tommy can do is return the favor. “Honestly, I’m pissed right now. You’re making me remember things I never wanted to think about again. But I’m not going to leave you here. I’m not going to make you feel more alone than I ever felt.”

There really wasn’t much to say to that. Adam pulled Tommy into his arms, and Tommy went, letting himself be held and petted. Adam didn’t let himself think, just ran fingers through Tommy’s hair and waited while the tension gradually leeched out of the room.

It wasn’t perfect, it wasn’t fixed, and Adam was smarter than to think that things would be smooth or easy. But it was a start.


End file.
